The fields, if you remem­ber, smelled noth­ing like the dying
foliage, after fumes from the aero­planes flooded your pos­ses­sions:
the irri­ga­tion sys­tem, the house frame, prayers ris­ing
like an over­ture, when braided together—

They built a small fire to keep warned. Retelling the story
of the rebels who’d run / against the grain—a ret­ro­grade.
Retelling the story of their past to the keep­ers
of their amnesty: I come with­out papers, but can learn.

You built an island of pulp, and swore that time would tell
what space is for. How a body caves (there’s been a cross over,
sig­nals) but its spirit endures (have inter­fered
with local fables.) Writ­ing home—lethal lace—

across a smoke-encrypted sun­rise: the pes­ti­cides led you
to believe that to con­verse, you must rehearse.
Amne­sia says: try to sur­mise a brighter future
I can’t—try again—under­stand you—

As you bow and weep into the dirt the lover is wad­ing through
chem­i­cals, and wait­ing for a sign, cries: the rec­tan­gle
imparted us just can­not rep­re­sent the whole
world. Where the radar detec­tor rests positioned

amid branches, afford­ing assur­ance to dis­or­ga­nized
intel­li­gence: sta­tioned near the TV, wish­ing
you would call me—prac­ti­cally radioac­tive, I think:
that the fam­ily carved their names into a tree sug­gests kindling

is a lux­ury (lan­guage over progress) whereas “warmth” was
the word (progress over inte­ger) the sponsor’s add
splic­ing your heart­break­ing news­cast in half is the new
(has been brought to you) cathar­sis. We were drawn, by night,

into the golden syringe, to find a hoard of riches hid­den
like a home­land, in your chest: a gen­tle breath blow­ing out
a torch of olive-branch proportions—over
a work that’s never done / what a dove failed to mention—